Impatiens
by EricaLumiere
Summary: Connor explains his brother to us after the loss of Rocco.


Murph was always the more passionate one. He had an impulsive streak. He went through an artist phase in our early twenties – he moved to New Yawk, New Yawk, lived at a train station, lied about going to prestigious colleges, survived off hot dogs, one dollar beer nights, and handouts. Spent a bunch of months there. Did really well fer himself, had gallery shows. It was enough that when he gave it up, we had enough for rent and beer for months. Some cougar-types played sugar mamas for him too, but he wouldn't give details, just that they bought his paintings and he gave 'em free delivery back to their fancy houses where their rich, business husbands never were.

I sat back and studied languages and mechanics in Colorado – I felt so impartial to both the subjects and the location – and it was one of the few times we ever split up like that. It had never been for so long, before. He called me once a week, from a pay phone in the station, or from a woman's house, just letting me know he was still alive. I never worried. I read my books, worked as a bartender, drank beer in the mornings. When Murphy was done, I came home from the pub to find him sleeping on my mattress, his shoes still on, cuddled up to two duffel bags of cash.

When we was kids – lil' kids, mind ya – one of the new lambs died. We had seen death before, sure, but we were too young to understand what it meant before. Now old enough, and finally crushed by it. Set him off for weeks. He lay outside at night, sprawled beside the fence up the hill, looking at the sky or the sheep. I covered him in blankets when he finally dozed off. I r'member he saw a shooting star once, but I don't know what he wished for.

Natural to be affected, mind ya, but Ma didn't want him going soft. Said you can love, but you gotta stay strong. Keep moving.

I don't know how he made it through Rocco's death. Maybe he still ain't, maybe, never will be. I know he listens to Ma and moves on, but that don't mean his heart isn't broke. They woulda been brothers if I weren't there. The two of 'em were so devious together. We all had fun, but I took charge with the serious stuff – I'm quicker to make decisions – and they sat back and listened when they knew they had to. Murph says some good things when he thinks it through, though. Always been a thoughtful kid.

He paid for flowers. I knew he still had lots of art money hidden away, there musta been hundreds of dollars worth of flowers in our apartment. He went out the day after Roc died and bought out a couple florists. I don't know how he got them all back, I was out getting something to eat. But when I came home, there they were. I had no idea there were so many kinds, especially not they could all grow in the city. So many of them looked tropical, could almost smell the ocean. Some were pretty ugly shapes. They were all in their colourful plastic pots, on the counter, on top of the fridge, on our new toilet tank, and all over the floors. A whole bunch out on the fire escape. Maybe his artistic eyeballs knew some colour scheme I didn't, but it wasn't any rainbow I ever see before. Knew all the names, too, pretty impressive. He sat on his knees, or sat on a chair and hunched over, watered and picked off dead leaves, every morning. He chucked the leaves out the window.

Rocco's old nan was in a home not too far from where Roc was living, and we had all popped in to see her before. She loved us, yelled at us fer having tattoos, always tried to lick her fingers and rub 'em off us. A tiny, spunky woman, always cussin' and fighting with her nurses. Loud as all Hell; reminded me of Ma, but some warped Italian version. We brought her some of the flowers, and it was the only time I ever seen her go quiet.

We still went for beers, met up with people we knew, but in even holier-in-the-wall places than Doc's. Low-profile. We kept up our regular bar scraps and games with the guys we knew. He seemed content enough, in front of people, even just with me, but I knew when he was fucking lying.

He'd lay out on the fire escape, ferget he was smoking, drinkin' beers by himself. Always been his best friend, 'nd I'd sit out there with him sometimes. Didn't hafta ask. Learned some of the constellations from some other artist in New Yawk, and taught them to me. He said the guy was high all the time, but he knew his shit. Woulda gone to be an astronomer if he wasn't so stoned; you can't smoke pot in those telescoping buildings, and that was a "bummer."

The day before Yakavetta's trial, he went around to all the old ladies in our building and split the flowers up among them. They knew who we were, what we did, and they accepted the flowers like a sign from the good Lord himself. Just in case he couldn't come back, he didn't want the flowers to die.

The only thing we went back to the apartment building for was to give money for a couple month's rent to the landlord – ya, he was a scummy guy, but we didn't need to fuck him over. We knocked on his door, Murph gave him a handful of bills, and the old man smiled. First time I ever seen that. It was genuine. There's karma in the world, anyway, but I wanted to repay that no one sold us out.

All the apartment windows had colourful flowers peering out from between the curtains. Murphy smiled as we walked away.


End file.
